Of memories and change

Pull out the fear of silence / Put out the need for guidance / Put out your own devices
And don't be afraid of the cold / Afraid of the cold / Afraid of the time / You've got no where to go but here.

---Silversun Pickups "Growing old is getting old"

It's always though coming back home. The cliché says that you can never go home again, and I always thought it was

because it was oneself who changed (and maybe matured) enough to feel a little out of place.

But no, I think I was wrong. I think I'm still the same person as I was when I left in 2008 (same weight, smaller size, thanks, Sheffield steep hills!) but Mexico is in a bit of a state. Not only due to some socio-economical turmoil I can't stomach to type, but also because of my acquaintances.

People getting married left and right, divorces, moving out of the country, people getting pregnant, so many things that I know eventually happen to most of us, but it's hard to marry the idea of your best friends going through that. You'd expect something as big as (let's say a child) would be something significant, that things would change and some sort of ceremony or summink would happen.

But no, it's mostly a whimper. And that's what is getting to me: how underwhelming are these “big events” and how I still not look forward to any of it. I should because of my age, which is when people start going “legit”, but still I feel that there's something missing that is not letting me and go fulfil those adult responsibilities.

I got called “niñote” the other day. That just means “big kid” but I think the proper term in English is “arrested development” (great show, btw). I sometimes DO feel out of place in Sheffield, hanging with people quite younger than me. But I feel out of place in Mexico, with people my age.

So... what should I do? Can't think of anything, so I'll just sit by, review some stuff and have a few sips of coffee while Silversun Pickups and their brilliant ditty, 'The Royal We', soothe my mental anguish.

Decatur (or the power of the windows to the soul)

I've got three friends that currently are very important to me and although i don't have "that feeling" for them, I still think they've been pretty important for me this year.

One has very dreamy eyes. The other one has very sparkly eyes, vivacious, ferocious. The third one has the same eyes as Jennifer Aniston. Talking with any of them at any given time it's a joy, but when I get to speak to all of them on the same period of time, that's one of the few occasions where I can feel truly happy.

I usually pride myself on not being superficial/banal but there's something about eyes, about the look someone gives you that can say so much without actually having to exchange a few sentences. After hugs, I feel eyes are the second most pure thing in the world. Hugs and looks are such giveaways.

All three of these persons have changed my life in the last 3 years, sometimes in a direct way, sometimes in a very direct, clear cut way. Funny how sometimes it's not how a person talks or what they do, but just their presence (or absence) and the side effects of it.

The other day I almost choked when I thanked two of these 3 persons for what they did for me (they indirectly made me face a fear and get over a creative hurdle). I felt pretty good after that and maybe it's the holiday cheer getting to me, but that was a very emotional day.

I will be meeting with person #3 this next tuesday, for coffee, pancakes and general gossip (the expression in spanish is "echar el chal"). Of all three, it's the person I have least in common, but I still can get along with said person and if I get any Christmas gifts, I wish they are in the form of a continued friendship with three pair of magnificent eyes.

PS: Funny posts will resume soon :)

Of sharks and writing.

So after a massively weird November (derailed postgraduate degree is putting it mildly), comes December and it's that time to look back on the year.

Eeek! Better not! I left a trail of damaged good, stupid kneejerk reactions and a few things I think I didn't meant to say and write.

But hey, you live, you learn, you love, you learn and...whoa, am I citing Alanis Morissette?

Jebus almighty... anyways, December is always that introspective month that feels like those sleepless nights when The Worries (TM) come around an' play Fear poker in your head. All those things you've done and that uncertainty that you might've messed up more than you've helped.

Still, what's done is done. Flea from the Chili Peppers said once that "it's better to regret something you did that something you didn't" and although I regret that writing binge, I would've regretted more the fact that it's been 8 years since I've been able to finish writing a book/novel/short story.

I still got two to finish and here's hoping that I can finish one that's been on the backburner for the past three years.

The criticism that I got for my first book (self published and all) did get to me. Of that I'm sure. And it was Nanowrimo what made me see that. I was afraid of writing for fear of just crash and burning again, but thanks to Nanowrimo and the very friendly chaps from the Writing Society (loveable Amris, cool cat Matty), I managed to finish a story that I had in my head for the past five years.

Funny enough, yesterday I dreamt of sharks on the streets.

I gotta tell you something first: I've dreamt about sharks for ages. Usually they were jumping out from the sea, looking threatening as hell (thanks, Spielberg), sometimes able to walk on sand, sometimes the sea overflew and they came around to chomp humanity.

Heck, one of the best dreams/nightmares I've had was one where I was walking in the ledge of clear water cove and I could see the bottom of the water, with magnificent reefs and fishes and all sorts of wonderful animals and lo and behold, several big sharks. I remember thinking on that dream "I'm so close to death, but still, everything is amazing".

So, yes, I dreamt about sharks again yesterday. I dreamt that there was a flood in Sheffield and the water brought sharks. Very nasty Mako sharks. I woke up scared and refused to go back to sleep unless Noah and the Whale soothed me back to sleep.

I checked today about dreaming of sharks. It's a sign of pent-up anger, frustration or hidden feelings. Maybe things are starting to surface and writing is what helped my subconscious shovelled it out of the depths?

I'll sleep on that...

Armies of the night - Intro

the wardrobe beckons mE

it's never a problem, as denim is my uniforM

every friday is the samE

i want to quit my job. have sum fun 4 a changE

Manotas, Duckman and Mocos are waitinG

every friday is the samE

with the beers and the prog rocK

..and the pork rindS

sometimes we go for some tacoS

sometimes we play a few videogameS

everyone moved oN

but we are on a cycle, stagnatinG

the years accumulate, the body failS

and my denim jacket is my tattoO

they are my friends, it's not their faulT

that i'm just a shallow maN

we will march every fridaY

we will be here every nighT

the cycle never finisheS

even after deatH

we all stay in a state of decaY

every day is the same, bang your head, feel no pain.

Fear and loathing in Room 7: The Ex.

It was just another Friday. The trilby was in place, the coffee was exacerbating my arrhythmia and the vodka bottle seems to evaporate per ACT OF THE GODS.

Everything's good in Hill City. The sun shines through my window, in another one of those FREAK events of God, who decides in HIS glory that 8 pm is a great time to have daylight. But who am I, OH LORD, to question your daylight savings time?

Ah, the demerara sugar + fairtrade bullshit coffee + twinnings instant cocoa mix is doing the trick. No more Writer's Block. No more fear. I am part of a writing surge. No longer does my body control my fingers nor do they obey The Words in my brain. No. It is them, those Tenacious Ten, who have a creative orgy over the keyboard and it's up to my brain to think of words, to string them along in strange ways, hoping to hit gold.

But no, it's only blanks that i shoot. The holes in the wall show the endless dart games that end up in my disgrace. The peanut crumbles and grapefruit skins in the floor are a reminder of my growing hernia. My lifestyle determines my deathstyle. Selah.

Will I ever finish this? Who cares? Not me, as I re-read this drivel and only find errors. Mistakes appear like relatives at a funeral. Nonsense prevails. Breaking the fourth wall and stream of consciousness are so horrible, the overused excesses of bad writers. Even worse when they are self-aware.

Mayhaps I need a new career?

The phone rings. I promised to change the current ringtone to something maybe a little more modern. Fads come and go.

It was Ronnie, my exgirlfriend. It always feels weird talking to an ex, as there are Words that you can't say anymore, phrases you can't kick around and memories that are best left in a shallow grave in the forest.

Still, The Conversation is enjoyable. Quirky, but enjoyable. Common stuff (family, Fear of The Future, coffee recipes) is discussed thoroughly and after ten minutes, she says goodbye and I continue typing away.

A friday like this can go on for so long. And yet, you know that all good things come to an end.

It started like a small buzz. A really distant sound. I thought nothing of it, but then it increased and increased until IT BECAME A THUNDER!!!

Ye Gods, it's the FUCKING RUSSIANS! You maniacs, you did it, you FINALLY DID IT!!!

There it was, flying towards me: a black hornet.

No warning, no previous dialogue mediated by Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton. It was ME against Nature. And Nature is a Bitch from Hell.

I dived, duck and rolled. No cover was available, but this Infamous Insect had invaded my private space. My room was mine NO MORE. It was HIS and mine.

Where, oh, where is the telethon to save me? Where is the charity record for my plight?

Then the phone rang again. The black hornet saw it. It acknowledge it. A DAMN INSECT RECOGNISES MOBILE PHONES! WE ARE DOOMED!!

The damn thing crawled toward the mobile, taunting me. I threw a piece of peanut, which clicked the left mouse button (I'm an excellent marksman). THE THUNDEROUS MUSIC startled the Hunching Hymenoptera and I made a run for it. Fuck it, no one lives forever.

I snagged the mobile from the desk and then a panda roll but me away from harm's way. Me: 1. Forces of Nature: Zero.

It was Ronnie again. I don't know if it was The Sound of a Female voice or just being out-awesome'd by me, but the Hornet o'Horrors (TM) did not took kindly and went hellbent on me. I threw myself to a side, with the hornet ripping a bit of my shirt off.

"What's that noise? What's going on?" asked Ronnie in horror while listening to me struggle. I did another panda roll, hurting my collar bone, but I managed to leave the room and lock the door.

I explained to Ronnie that I was under attack. The Reckoning had started and God decided to mess with us with Hornets.

She says that there are days when she thanks we are no longer together. Shrug.

"Are you a man or not? Go merc the insect!" she says but I stall. I'm a lover, not a fighter. We talk for a few minutes when my sweet, AMAZING music becomes a horrible, soul-destroying dirge that was a violation of my eardrums.

"That's it, you Terrible Tiphiid" I said while rolling a few bits of the Guardian's sport section. "You will get out of there".

The volume increased. This WAS A WAR and there WILL BE CASUALTIES. Preferably on Nature's side.

I kick the door in, throwing newspaper balls in the direction of the wasp. The insect deftly avoided the attack and flew to a higher position. Ye gods! From the ceiling that insect could be manager. Director. GOD.

It flew towards me, with MURDER in its multiple eyes. Oh, Lord, what is I gonna do? Will the last time my ex-girlfriend listens to me will be when I'm turned into grated cheese by a flying murder machine? IS THIS IT?

Then, my brain, that blocked up matter that hasn't produced anything for weeks, devised a plan. Quickly I crouched, waiting for the sonufabitch to be in range and then THAT BASTION OF KNOWLEDGE, the Torygraph, ehrm, Telegraph, was a Saving Shield.

Yes, a friday edition of The Telegraph saved my life. Stuck in the middle of Alan Duncan's horrible mug was the wasp, stinger embedded in His Living-on-Rationness.

I flicked the newspaper off the window. May Jeremy Clarkson's wig have pity on the horrible insect. I continued to talk to my ex and everything seemed to be smooth sailing.

Until she popped the question, that horrible MOMENT I dreaded all my life: "Say, why do you have Coldplay in your laptop?"

My reputation...ruined!!!

The Pill Generation (6)

Funny enough, it is as they said.

I met Katia when I was seventeen. It was a bit random, but then again, my life is like that. I was just hanging out with my cousin Ciro and our junkie friend/dealer extraordinaire, Monch. We had this stupid class about literary analysis and we were flunking it.

Still, it was top quality gear, man. Monch had this primo stuff and a hitter, so it was easy to conceal.

So there we were, laughing our asses off in a classroom, when I notice this yellow notebook in the seat bellow Ciro. I bent down to get it.

"Man, and I thought Joni Mitchell looked like shit" joked Monch.

You see, I have this problem with my knees, so I really can't crouch, I have to bend. And I had a predilection for baggy clothes.

It was 1994, man, cool Britannia and grunge were the fads du jour.

I flipped through the pages while Ciro and Monch took a big sized hit. There were little notes, small poems, drawings and song lyrics. I remember feeling an instant collection. Whoever owned this notebook had it in for Soundgarden, Counting Crows, Smashing Pumpkins and Collective Soul.

If I might stand in my soapbox for a bit, I'm gonna say that Collective Soul, Candlebox, Therapy? and Gin Blossoms are the most underrated bands from the 90s. Thanks, I'll be in 1994 all my life.

Anyways, I remember that I read the whole thing for hours. I felt bad, I guess, I was snooping around, but I couldn't stop reading. She was in love with some dude called Julio. Fair enough, she hasn't met me.

Powertripping. It so fuckin' rules.

Anyhow, Monch had the munchies (that's where he got the nickname), so we went to Don Chucho's Hot Dog cart in the back of the parking lot. He had the best (and unhealthiest) hot dogs ever. Sure, he supported the wrong squadron, but he always gave us a discount. It probably had to do with the fact that Monch always gave him a Henry of yeyo at the end of the month.

For the record, Ciro and I stopped hanging with Monch in 95. It got really bad.

Anyways, Ciro and I drove back to mine. He started living with my family in 92 because of a horrible situation in his house. My mum was very supportive and always thought of him as part of the family and my dad loved to discuss with him about astronomy. Me? I got the brother I've never had, and Ciro got the family life he never knew, so everything was alright.

"So, who's the girl who owns the notebook?"

"How d'you know it's a chick, C?"

"I can read you, mon brave. Spill the beans".

"Someone called Katia Miller. Never heard of her".

"I think she knows Cuchillo".

"Who?"

"Danny. The blonde dude with the Stanger".

"Does he know anyone called 'Julio'".

"Man, you might as well ask for 'Pedro' or 'Juan Pablo'. We know about 14 Julios".

"Well, this guy's special".

"You are funny when you are jealous, mon brave".

We fired up the SNES and beat the shit out of each other in SF2 until it was lights out. Back in my room, the moon crept in the floor. I love nights with full moon, even if it irks me that I don't know the name of the star that is sort of close to the moon. It's very bright and I wish I was as good with astronomy as Ciro.

I sigh. The way my room is built, the moon shines like a spotlight. I would sometimes just look outside while listening to The Cure ('Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me', of course) and just aimlessly wander in my head.

I thought about Katia. Even if I don't know her, the notebook told me enough. She has a copy of her classes there. I'll pop by and hand it over. If we click, it'll be nice. If not, at least I could put a face to the writings.

Remembranza de: Amigos y música.

Corría el año de 1993 y...

Okay, lo siento, va a ser uno de "esos posts" nostálgicos que parecen como conejos apareándose. Todos los blogs los tienen. Creo que todas mis historias tienen algo de nostálgico.

Pero me estoy saliendo de tema.

Corría (hu huhu huh uh you said corría) el año de 1993 y estaba emocionado porque mis padres contrataban Multivisión. Tenía dos ventajas: a diferencia de Cablevisión (el corazón de tu televisión), Multivisión tenía más canales y contaba con MTV. Mi historia musical se divide en "Odio la música completamente*" y "ADORO LA MÚSICA, WWWWIIIIIII!!". El parteaguas fue ese día (octubre) de 1993, cuando el instalador de Multivisión (un tal Macías) me dijo "a los chavos les gusta este canal".

Me dejó sintonizado MTV latino en lo que arreglaba el papeleo con mi mamá. Mentiría si dijera qué grupo estaba tocando, pero el VJ en ese momento era un tal Gonzalo que a mi hermano le cagaba pero a mí me caía bien.

En realidad, antes del 96, todos los VJs de MTV me caían bien con excepción de Daisy Fuentes.

Como sea, cada vez que llegaba de la prepa tenía dos canales que ver: Cartoon Network y MTV. Mi primaria y secundaria fueron horribles (emocionalmente hablando), así que tenía problemas para platicar y relacionarme con la gente (todavía los tengo, booyah!). La música y las caricaturas era lo único que me hacía sentir "aceptado".

Largas horas pasaba viendo a Droopy y al coyote/zorro/loquesea haciendo desmadre y medio. Sabiamente bajaba el volumen si veía a Beavis y Butthead. Mis padres nunca me juzgaron ni me preguntaron si los veía (aunque ellos odiaban a los Simpsons, pero con el tiempo los aceptaron), otro de mis hermanos era el que realmente se preocupaba que los viera y llegaba al extremo de decirme "NO LOS VEAAAAAS!" cada vez que había un anuncio de ellos.

Por supuesto que los iba a ver. En las inmortales palabras del Hermano Velle, no hay nada mejor que saber que hay dos gueyes más pendejos que uno.

Hubo grupos que amé en cuanto vi: Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Crash Test Dummies, Helmet, Nine Inch Nails, Soundgarden, Spin Doctors, Oasis, Blur, Therapy?.

Otros que no me gustaron pero eventualmente acepté: Alice in Chains, Nirvana (más o menos), Smashing Pumpkins, Blind Melon (segundo album nada mas).

Mi incipiente (oh no, palabra condechi!!!) gusto por la música eventualmente me condujo a conocer gente que hasta la fecha considero mis amigos. Uno es el maestro Paco (que le perdí el rastro por un tiempo, pero nunca el respeto) y el otro el condenadamente sincero Velle (quién no me sorprendería que algún día se volviera loco al son de 'Footsteps').

Entre pláticas y debrayes, Velle me prestó un disco de Pearl Jam que nunca había escuchado. Decía "The Versus Sessions" y lo escuché. Lo primero que me dije fue "por qué suena tan de la chingada?" (empecé por el final del disco) y lo segundo fue "¿Dónde lo consigo?"

Velle me sugirió el Tower de Niza en la Zona Rosa. Mi hermano que odia a Beavis aceptó llevarme y no encontré el versus, pero salí con el "Siamese Dream" de Smashing Pumpkins (porque me obsesioné con "Rocket"), el "Superunknown" de Soundgarden (que me marcó con "Head down" y "Fresh Tendrils") y el "Ghosts that haunt me" de Crash Test Dummies que me parece de lo más menospreciado del folk canadiense (say whaaaat?).

Eventualmente conseguí el versus en pirata (el pirata de un bootleg tiene 100 años de perdón) y hasta la fecha lo escucho seguido. Tal vez más que el "Yield", mucho más que "Binaural", "Riot Act" o el "AguacatitoJam".

Si no fuera por MTV (cuando era bueno, a hueso) o por los señores Vellenaweth, Godefroy, López (aveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Fénix), Valencia, Cervantes Guarneros (Jonel y César), Zerón, Andrei Moreno, Pity, Solari y las sritas Ramirez(que todo quire), Moore, Madrigal, Rodriguez de San Miguel Arevalo, Herrera y Crook, no quisiera saber donde estaría ahorita.

Como dijo Sean Bateman: Rock n roll. Deal with it.

*Por varias razones, pero la Nana Goya lo dijo mejor que yo: ESA ES OTRA HISTORIA.

La indomitable levedad de las Maruchan...

Y pues ahi tienen que seguia CON MI NOBLE LABOR de rescatar la llave infractudiliferasca (o como se llame) que me pidieron los gueyes de Fobia esa vez que me di un pason con resistol 5000 y gomitas ricolino (que bueno que no fueron moritas...pfffft!!)

Y cuando digo "seguia" quiero decir "estaba parado en el trafico, mentando progenitoras y escuchando a los esquizitos".

Es en esos momentos, cuando manejas de la Fondesa (la peor zona de la cd. de mexico) hacia satelite (la otra peor zona de la cd. de mexico) y pasas por polanco (la peor zona de mexico que es tan mediocre que no puede ser la peor pero es mencionada siempre de segundona)y estas en ese maldito trafico con un monton de mediocres panzones profesionistas como tu que se pregunta: "¿POR QUE, JEBUS? ¿QUE SIGNIFICA TODO ESTO?!?!?"

Pero no hay respuesta. Solo ambulantes paseandose entre los coches vendiendo cachivache y medio y la radio que te ofrece que te zampes a los penajeneros del club de los beatles en universal stereo o a los sapotracios hipsters de reactor.

No se que haria sin mis cds. Y lo digo porque no tengo ni un cd, solo un 8 track con Boston.

Moreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee than a feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelin'

Estos momentos atrapados en el trafico son como que el momento zen de tu vida. Piensas en cada cosa, en cada estupidez. No es como cuando te vas a dormir y llegan Las Penurias a acosarte y espantarte el sueño (pa que despiertes el siguiente dia viendote como mapache cocainomano).

Me pongo a pensar en tantas cosas. Lo que siempre me propongo a hacer y no hago. Bajar de peso. Acabar de escribir todos los libros que nunca acabo. Tener un mejor trabajo. Obedecer a los de Fobia y encontrar su chunche que quieren. Dejar de comerme los mocos (por aquello de que tienen muchos trigliceridos).

Y entonces que se me emparejan unos babosos en una Honda CRV que vienen escuchando a KPaz de la sierra.

Los ignoro. La ciudad esta llena de esos naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaacos... ASH!!!

Pero ps que se asoman las AK-47 y futasssssssssssssssssssssss progenitoras, empiezan a disparar. Lo bueno es que el coche que traigo es a prueba de balas. Lo malo es que yo no. Empiezo a manejar todo agachadin y chocandole a pendejo y medio en el periferico. ¿El imbecil que se te cierra cuando dejas pasar a una ambulancia? Le raye su BMW. ¿La vieja histerica en minivan con 8 crios que piensa que su microbus pigmeo cabe en cualquier parte? Adios espejos y luces indicadoras. ¿El penequete que cree que con apretar el claxon todo se movera mas rapido? Ya lo embarre contra la acera.

Manejo a toda velocidad mientras escapo de los imbeciles de la CRV y pienso que si yo fuera Gael Garcia Bernal:

a) Andaria en el closet con Diego Luna (uuuy y con esos bigotitos de gato, ¿como no?)

b) Esta escena tendria de soundtrack la rola esa de control machete que dice "artilleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeria pesadaaaaa!" que viene en el disco de artilleria pesada presenta que no me acuerdo como se llama, pero trae a Maigaz y el Maigaz es chido.

c) Hay una envoltura de "Quesito Mio" en este coche.

Como sea, pues de tanto manejar a la Abelarda, pues que MOCOLELES, que choco contra un Ford K y mi safari se voltea varias veces en el aire. Yo salgo volando y aterrizo sobre unas lesbianas en el Naucalli y creo que ya me salve...

Futa, es entonces que llegan los de la CRV y ya me iban a aplicar la de Jay-Z en el video "99 problems" cuando llega Ben Stiller y les grita "COMO ESTAAAAAAN, PINCHES?!?!?!?".

Y los mata con blue steel....baby.

Ben Stiller me invita al Wing's ARmy un rato. Me siento confundido y un poco mal por las lesbianas que mate aplastadonlas con mi horrible panza.

Pero estan chingonas las alitas.

En fin, me sentia fracasado porque no habia encontrado el trabucle ese que querian los de Fobia, pero no importa, Ben Stiller me dijo que habia ALGO MAS en mi vida.

Fue entonces que mi vista se desvio a una chica morena en otra mesa...

The Pill Generation (43)

From The Book Of Marius

As I was walking from The Edge (a trendy but silly pub near my house) counting the money I managed to bamboozle outta some taiwanese birds, I thought that what comes around goes around.

Or the other way around.

Anyways, I planned to go to bed on an empty stomach. You know, as you get older, you stop doing a lot of stuff. I stopped eating dinner a few years ago and now not only do I have an onset of scurvy, but I look like a rejected American Apparel model.

But it's alright, I look magnificent in speedos. Heck, Alton Towers will make an exception if I use one.

But I digress.

The smell of ginger and soy sauce lingered. I saw some chinese dudes having a small gathering in a kitchenette. They were playing Texas Hold 'em, the game where I just dominated.

Should I push my luck? Or should I go home?

Fuck it. I knocked on the window and parlayed my way inside. A dude in a wifebeater offers me a Tuborg and I gladly accept it. Another one is passing a tray of octopus in oyster sauce and I take a few bits. I always carry toothpicks, so with a few cheese cubes and olives, I manage to make some pinchos.

The chinese guys seem to be entertained by this and I explain them how to make them. Soon they are making different pinchos.

I don't want to take my chances (besides, they were nice enough to give me free food), so I keep the game civil (i.e. no bets) and we laughed for a while.

It was around 3 AM that we decided to change the game to Three Card Brag. Y'know the rules. Then it got bad.

I always thought that I'd die in a car accident. This was the traditional method of decease in my family, but then again, no-one in my family played Three Card Brag with The Triads...

TO BE CONTINUED.

When the coffee hits the fan

Ten kids in a cadillac...

It was just another day on a measly paying job that I never liked and with instead of adding to my CV, it diminished my already tarnished rep.

But it's a living, I guess.

It wasn't my idea to take this job. I did it out of this sick, strange sense of loyalty I have. If you ask people about me, "loyal" won't be the first adjective they'll use. Either "naive" or "wanker" will be most probable response you'll get. You'll also might get "closet passive/aggressive idiot with sexual ambiguity issues", but I guess she never got over it.

Rock 'n' Roll. Deal with it. Sean said it. I live it.

Omar looks at his phone and frantically types. You'd think it's his girlfriend who keeps his Chris Martin mug in place, but no, it's his group of friends. I've never met a guy so afraid of his friends.

I'd make a bad joke about him and his male friends, but then one of my exgirlfriends would be right about the passive/aggresive thing. It's a fair cop.

If there's one thing that I hate, it's heat. Add to that humid heat, no music, no food and waiting for two hours to some wonky geezer to open the gates in a one horse town in order for us to get a menial, stupid job done in a telecomm rack and you'd get the picture of why I'm so bitter.

If I were a drink, I'd be Pennyroyal Tea.

Damn, now I'm thinking of Nirvana. I honestly don't think they are the staple 90s group. Heck, they don't speak for me. Alice in Chains speaks for me. Smashing Pumpkins speaks for me. Collective Soul speaks for me. Soundgarden speaks for me. But not Nirvana.

Finally, that useless git in a Ford Fiesta arrives. That stupid car with the fugly, gaudy logo on its side. The bloke says he was in a very important meeting. Wonder what's the lipstick then on the neck, then...

Three hours in and I already feel The Hunger. Not any normal hunger that comes after your stomach has the needle veering between "peckish" and "faint", but the proper, low-sugar energy, out of body experience that comes with The Hunger.

Omar keeps twisting some telephone wires while I screw a rack in place. We lost an hour trying to put the stupid gizmo in the right place, as all the specs that the client gave us were wrong. I wish I could say this is the only occasion it has happened.

Six hours. Some bean counter calls Omar, yells at him. We should've finished 3 hours ago. Omar explains that we were in late because of their company. Bean counter dude doesn't care. He says we are not a good consultancy and if we don't finish on time and "make it up to him", we won't get any more jobs.

I honestly couldn't care less, but Omar's a good pal and I wouldn't want him to lose his job. I don't give two pilchard's tails if I do, though.

We finish an hour before the midnight test is to be carried. Everything is tip top and then the Bean Counter calls again. He wants Omar to talk him through the test. It's a 2 hour drive in a dark highway. He doesn't care. He wants Omar to be there.

Me? I have to stay in this crappy shelter and help the dude from the local office. I don't get it, it wasn't in the contract that we should be here. Why in Jeremy Clarkson's denim jacket does my boss keeps accepting this "special treatments"? My salary is shit and I just feel like a slave.

No, wait, even slave had decent working hours.

Omar and I go for a few tacos and I sit down. I got Siouxsie and the Banshees' "Peek-a-boo!" song in my head. The midnight test starts and I sigh. Even if something goes wrong, I'm not allowed to touch anything, except what Omar and I did.

First sign of trouble and the local arse blames it on me. "Careless installation" he says. The local dudes have a place that looks like a pisshead hurling noodles. Our installation is neat, with plastic binding ties keeping it organised. Everything's tagged.

"Sloppy workers". "They were late". "Never seen someone so lazy".

Hey man, I'm not painted here, ok?

4 hours in and Siouxsie's ditty is still in my head. The local dude finds that the problem wasn't in the shelter nor in the main office, but in the middle point. One of their guys "forgot" he had a graveyard shift and was out partying. Man, why can't I have that job?

The test takes only five minutes. I drag myself to the bus station, get into a smelly coach and travel for 3 and a half hours.

The throb in my forehead tells me I'm way past being angry. But I brush it off with a smile. I'm doing this to help a friend. A quiet smile draws in my face. It's for my friend, I say.

I guess they are right about me.

Plate of shrimp...

I sleep most of the day until 6 pm, when Miller calls me. He's on the Guadalupe Acueduct, burning random stuff he finds on his job. He tells me to bring a six pack and "that bottle of dark rum I left at yers". I wanted to see Chloe today, but her parents have this big arse dinner in Xochimilco. I arrive with only three cans. Miller shrugs and he explains everything to me:

Los cuervos han dejado de contar

Me estacioné afuera de la casa de Chloe. Usualmente ella está lista a tiempo antes que yo, pero al parecer ya tiene la manía de cada mujer de cubrirse ritualmente de maquillaje.

Fuera de traer ojos de mapache desvelado, el resto de su maquillaje me da igual. Por alguna extraña razón me gusta que tenga mucho rimmel. ¿Por qué?

No tengo ni fruta idea. ¿Y sí no lo sé yo, como podrán saberlo ustedes?

Como sea, ya viene ella. El cavalier empieza a detenerse y le doy unas patadas. Abro la puerta y ella sube.

-No me gusta tu música.

-"Hola, ¿cómo estás?"

-Uy, no aguantas nada.

Nomás porque hay testigos...

En fin, tenía que llevar a Chloe a un cumpleaños de sus papás. Si me guiara por las pendejadas de Rius o cualquiera de esos comunistas lamepenes del PRD, diría que son fresitas nuevos ricos. Pero no lo soy. Aunque si son fresitas nuevos ricos que marcharon en la Marcha por la Seguridad.

Como diría Homero cuando creó su propia secta: todo el mundo son tontos menos yo.

En fin, iba manejando y esta mujer se puso a jugar con el Zune. Ahora, no sé si les ha pasado, pero esa es una mentada de las peores. No, no que yo tenga una móndriga Zune en vez de una iPod como medio mundo y su sirvienta.

Hay límites. MUY CLAROS y verdaderos e INTOCABLES límites. Y meterse con la selección musical de la persona que maneja es algo que te permite saltarte la convención de Ginebra.

Chile piquín. Check. Tehuacán. Check. Coartada. No. NO GO!!!!

No sé que tanta idiotez me venía diciendo Chloe. Usualmente me desconecto cuando ella habla. Es mi amiga desde la prepa y es con mucho dolor que veo como cada año se vuelve más pendeja. Sí. Lo dije. Lo tenía que decir. La mayor frustración que he vivido es ver como todos mis amigo de la prepa se apendejaron (o de plano algunos se suicidaron).

La generación noventera. El mejor año de mi vida fue 1994.

Tan lejano. Tan cercano a mi corazón.

Pinche Chloe me acaba de quitar "Perfect Blue Buildings" de Counting Crows.

"Mr. Jones es la única buena de ellos".

Lo dice la que sólo escucha "Losing my religion". Lo dice la que cree que "Smells like Teen Spirit" es la mejor canción de los noventas. Lo dice ...argh, bueno, me entienden, ¿verdad?

Y si no, fóllense.

El otro día que estuve limpiando (tirando cosas) en mi cuarto, me encontré mi diario de ese año. Vaya que era un jodido hijo de puta. Creo que todavía estoy jodido. Recuerdo mucho mi fijación con el disco de "August and everything after" de Counting Crows. Recuerdo haber grabado varios cassettes con algunas de sus canciones y regalarlos.

Extrañamente, ese disco me pintaba una realidad que yo quería vivir: una relación dañada. Recibir esas llamadas a las 2, 3 de la mañana. Platicar en un café por horas al ritmo de musica grunge con una chava de pelo negro rizado, camisa de cuadros, una boina e ideas raras. Soñaba con que esa relación dañada me inspiraba a caminar por las noches, a veces en la lluvia, a veces no. Me inspiraba a salir a manejar sin dirección alguna de noche.

15 años después y todo eso nunca pasó. Se acabó la prepa. Se acabó esa escena musical. Mis amigos y amigas ahora son gente de familia, con responsabilidades. Ellos siguieron adelante y yo me quedé atrapado.

No es que no haya intentado avanzar. Pero todos mis intentos de "pertenecer" han sido frustrados. No lo digo sólo por música, pero por otras cosas quizás menos superficiales. El matrimonio me parece una farsa (es una estúpida y patética lucha de poderes). Los trabajos me aburren a los 3, 5 o 6 meses. Nada de lo que hago parece tener importancia o trascendencia.

Y ni me hagan hablar del amor. Me acuerdo que platicaba con una amiga el otro día y le decía que no siento nada. Me gusta la idea de querer a alguien, pero ya no siento lo mismo. Simplemente o hice callo o me vale pito.

Los papás de Chloe son como mis papás: piensan que ando tras ella. Nunca me ha interesado y es mi amiga, pero la verdad no se por qué me llevo con ella aún de todos estos años. No me interesa ni amorosa ni sexualmente. No soporto la mayoría de sus conversaciones. Sus amigos son una bola de fresas pendejos con diplomados en marketing o psicología Gestalt.

Pero salgo con ella por "old time's sake". Por alguna razón, tengo la esperanza que algo, un recuerdo, un comentario, UNA PINCHE PALABRA me haga recordar los tiempos mejores. No me refiero a los 90s, pero me refiero a los mejores tiempos de mi estado mental. Cuando todavía añoraba. Cuando TODAVIA SENTIA.

Estoy en la "Curva del Diablo" y me acuerdo de Katia. La chica Miller. Simplemente me salió al recuerdo. Salgo de la infame curva y pienso en Selma. La Finlandesa Simancas. Todas esas historias, todas esas mujeres. ¿Quiénes son? ¿Dónde están?

"Oh".

Le pregunto a Chloe qué sucede.

La piel se me enchina. Ese sonido de doce segundos que sólo se escucha si le trepas totalmente al radio. Esos acordes tan lastimeros.

"Step out the front door like a ghost into a fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white".

Detengo el coche y le doy un manotazo al volante. Empiezo a llorar y Chloe me abraza.

Ella sabe.

(continuará)

Ah...

Es obvio que no encontre lo que me pedian los Fobicos extraterrestres que venian en una nave en forma de Dorito.

Fracase.

Fracase como Chris Cornell FrAcaso en ConveNCERNos que rock y hip hop hap hup tap pueden sobrevivir. Lo cual trae tres (3) lecciones IMPORTANTES :

• Tener una rola con ritmo de Reggaeton te hace merecedor a un patin laxante. Timbaland tendra el toque magico para hacer musica EXCESIVAMENTE pegajosa (mucho mas que la gripe porcina, ooooohhh YEAH) pero ... JEBUS MARIA BARRACUDA, esto es una broma muy mala o la crisis de los cuarenta.
  
• No por mucho autotune, mejoras una laringe jodida. Cornell, go for an implant.
  
• Audioslave fue lo mejor que le pudo pasar. Pero salieron los bolsos de mano, volaron los guamazos y ahora tenemos a Chris Cornell cantando en Baron Rojo y a Tom Morello en el metro Plaza de la Transparencia (mejor en Revolucion, no??? pa que se vaya al chopo).
• Ya se que dije 3, pero es mi post, asi que me vale Maestro Limpio sabor Kiwi. Es mas, solo por eso no digo nada.

Ah, pero bueno, esto no es un adios, sino un hasta pronto.

Las Castañetas de Cagliostro seria un buen nombre para un grupo de rock.

Fookin' 'ell, guvnah!!!!

(esto no tiene acentos y si no les gusta, estan en su derecho)

Ps ahi tienen que venia yo caminando por una de esas calles de la condesa que parecen lo que te imaginas que seria una calle de Europa (a menos de que hayas estado en Europa, CERDO CAPITALISTA!) cuando zacarracatelas! Una sombra enorme se ciñe y volteas al cielo y ahi esta, sobre toda la ciudad de Mexico, un Dorito Pizzerola del tamaño del Estadio Azteca (perdonen, Estadio Guillermo Cañedo).


"Que pirujas es eso?" te preguntas mientras te escondes tras un bote de basura del GDF y buscas en tu cartera algun escapulario o estampita de la Virgen que tenga aca una oracion rapida para que te perdonen todos tus pecados en caso de que Dios y unos extraterrestres de la Pepsico decidan reiniciar el sistema tierra.

Y no encuentras nada, mas que dos envolturas de canelitas, un billete de 20 pejepesos y dos polillas canibalizandose entre ellas.

Es en ese momento que piensas "polillas canibalizandose entre ellas seria una letra tipica de Mars Volta". Pero entonces notas que el Dorito Gigante que amenaza con cargarse a Mexico empieza a sacudir el bote, al ritmo I SEE YOU BABYYYYY SHAKING THAT AAAASSSSS SHAKING THAAAAT ASSS.

Notas que entre las particulas de MSG, quesito en polvo y chile piquin Mauri, vienen varios extraterrestres, todos con playera negra y pantalones rosas y exclamas a los 3 vientos (eran cuatro, pero la crisis, mano, la crisis): PIRUJA PROGENITORA!! LOS DE FOBIA SON EXTRATERRESTRES!!

Mas rapido de lo que dices "no entiendes porque no ereeesss yooooo!" te asedian los extraterrestres Fobia/Moderatto/LosOdio/LosConcorde/Microchips/Ultrasonicos y te dicen:

-Terricola, sabemos que no has posteado nada en tu blog. Queremos un tributo a nuestro dios hecho con catetos, hipotenusas y harina de maiz o haremos que todas las canciones en el mundo suenen a Belinda con Los Licuadoras.

Sabiendo que tal acto implicaria que todos acabariamos esteriles, dije:

-Bueno.

Ven? Lo dije! Neto que lo que sucedio despues no es mi culpa.

-Que quieren de tributo, estimados habitantes del Planeta de Lozanne?

-Exigimos que hagas una peregrinacion...

-Ah, un retablo en La Villa? Doy gracias a la Virgen y a MixUp por las ventas de mis proyectos alternos fallidos en el botadero de "mas de 1000 titulos en rebaja!" y todo eso?

-Silencio - grito el extraterrestre con peinado de vaca relamida y pantalones mas ajustados (no es que yo me fije en eso)-. Debes encontrar los 6 pedazos de La Llave Transdimensional. O nos cargaremos a todos, tio!

-La...llave transdimensional? No maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammuts, de donde sacan esos nombres?

-Sus creadores escribian para la BBC en los 70s.

-Ah, ya...

-Toma este morral con botones happy punketos, terricola y el detector en forma de yo-yo Coca Cola. Tienes 6 semanas para cumplir tu mision.

Otro extraterrestre, con un fedora de cuadritos y demasiado rimmel en los ojos, me dio unas llaves.

-Son para el transporte oficial de tu mision. Ahi le pones Nova y que le cambien las bujias, majete.

-Si, si... oye, como esta Rebecca?

-Silencio, mortal! No menciones a esa perfida suripanta.

-Oh, bueno, tu sabes que Ricky la usa nomas pa' aparentar.

-Cumple tu mision o te vaporizamos con unas poffets rancias.

-Acaso hay otras? Vale, vale...

Me disponia a cumplir mi mision, mientras los extraterrestres regresaban a su Dorito gigante. Abri el morral y entre las chacharas, me encontre una post it rosita mexicanito (eso no puede estar bien ni gramatical ni ortograficamente pero que importa?) que leia "Cuidado con El Tramposo".

Ahi ta el andoba.

-Simooooooooooooooooooon - dije y aprete el boton de alarma del coche o moto o lo que fuese mi tranporte para esta nueva aventura.

El "fiiu FI fuuu" de la alarma me indicaba que mi coche en esta desventura con referencias pop que seria vieja en menos de dos años (como las peliculas de Kevin Smith) iba a ser... el Volkswagen Safari de Vicente Chambon!

BOO-YAH!!! Coche setentero FTW!!!!

Me trepe al coche, arranque las multas y las amenazas de muerte a la Chilindrina y arranque, listo para una nueva aventura.

Lo unico malo es que lo unico que hay en el Safari es un mugroso 8-track con rolas de Boston. La historia de mi vida, tengo que salvar al mundo mientras canto "moreeee than a feeeeeeeeeeeelin', when i hear that old song they used to play".

-Continuara!!!-